


Jeeves and the Secret Santa

by butterflymind



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/pseuds/butterflymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Next year, Bertie Wooster would most definitely not be leaving London for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [codswallop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/gifts).



I’m not a lucky fellow when it comes to Christmases. Nothing against the season as a whole you understand, peace and goodwill to all men and all that. It’s just, what with one thing and another it’s never brought much peace and goodwill to me. In fact, the whole oncoming yuletide brings me out in a bit of a cold sweat. It comes in part from having so many aunts interested in my welfare; I try to make myself as uninteresting as possible but so far it’s been no go. The story I should tell you is the one of my Aunt Dahlia and the painting, for that illustrates best of all what happens when Bertie Wooster is disturbed from his cosy London nest and made to prance about the country in the name of Christmas cheer. It all started, as it always does, just when I was feeling on top of the world.

*

I had just returned from lunch at the Drones where, in a particularly good game of Shove up St. Peter I had wagered my silk cravat against Beanie Twysllton’s new hat and come home in triumph with the both of them. The hat was a sort of tweed affair with earflaps, I thought it very fetching but Bingo said it made one resemble a basset hound. I knew one thing for certain, the second I got home, and despite the hat’s many merits, it would be instantly consigned to the section of my wardrobe entitled ‘Jeeves does not approve’ and quite probably never seen again. Therefore I had rolled it carefully and placed it in one of my trouser pockets with the full intention of secreting it in a little drawer that I keep for the things Jeeves does not approve of. You may say it has come to something when a chap is hiding his clothes from his own man, but with Jeeves it just seems that his marvellous brain, being so huge and heavy in his head, has squashed any sartorial flair he may have had quite flat.

As I reached the flat, I was reflecting on my winnings and my plans to spend Christmas in my little London circle. There was an important Shove up St. P tournament on Christmas Eve, and as reigning champion it was my duty not to miss it.  Considering the whole bundle was making me feel quite content with the world, so much so that by the time I reached the door I was whistling a jaunty little tune and doffing my hat at passing ladies. My mood however, came to a crashing halt when it met Jeeves at the front door, wearing his most sombre of sombre expressions.

“A telegram has arrived sir, from Mrs Travers.” My jaunty tune suffered a segue into a minor key, but I prevailed with it.

“What say she Jeeves? Best wishes for a happy Yuletide and all that?”

“The only wish mentioned was her wish for you to come to Brinkley Court for Christmas sir.”

“Oh no Jeeves, I have an excellent Christmas planned already. Tell her I’m jolly grateful for the offer, but I will have to respectfully decline et cetera.”

“I’m afraid the request was not phrased as an offer of hospitality sir.”

“How was it phrased Jeeves?”

“I would classify it as a summons sir.”

“A summons? Like when one is summoned to the court?”

“Precisely sir.”

That was pretty much the final nail for my cheerful demeanour. “Does she have a reason for this summons?” I asked. I’ll admit to sounding a little petulant at this point, but the Shove up St. P tournament was at stake.

“She seems to regard it as your duty to spend Christmas with your family sir.” My heart sank; duty is always the hardest thing to avoid, particularly when it is presented to one by an aunt. “And she also mentions requiring your help in an important matter. A valuable painting has gone missing, I understand.”

I perked up at that. “Oh, a damsel in distress eh?” that sounded much more in my line. Never let be said that Bertram Wooster has ever left a damsel distressed if there was anything he could do to help. Even if it had been some years since anyone would have described my Aunt Dahlia as a damsel of any sort. Still I wasn’t happy about giving up my crown at the Drones. I suddenly realised I was fiddling with the hat in my pocket quite unconsciously, and quickly stopped before Jeeves noticed it.

“I suppose we better push off down to Brinkley then.” I sighed, thinking fondly of the Drones and the old St. P. “My aunts, Jeeves, are rather like those nine whatsits the Greeks were so fond of.”

“The nine muses sir?”

“Yes, those ladies. They strike inspiration into men’s hearts. Only rather than the heavenly singing, the instrument of choice is the earthly telegram. Run me a bath and pack our bags Jeeves, we’re off to help the only damsel in distress that any sensible dragon would run away from.”

*

We arrived at Brinkley just in time for the only compensation for the diminishment of my Christmas cheer. My Aunt’s chef, the inimitable Anatole, could melt icicles in the hardest heart, and given half a chance he would probably melt them, and then serve drizzled over something so delicious that you would forget that they were ever your icicles at all. After dinner I had almost regained my peace and equilibrium with the world, when my aunt summoned Jeeves and me for the second time that day.

I should probably pause this narrative, for the sake of the proper form of the thing, to describe the dramatis personae at this little gathering. Dreadful oversight not to have done it sooner, but I was trying so hard to set the ‘scene’ that I quite forgot about all the people running about inside of it. Jeeves and I of course you already know, and then there is my Aunt Dahlia, the aforementioned damsel, and my Uncle Tom, who is a nice sort but prone to the sort of stomach complaint that is only remedied by a constant supply of exquisite French food.  There were two guests in the house that Christmas, and a pair of the most questionable children it has ever been my misfortune to come across. The children were a pair of orphans that my aunt had taken in over Christmas partly at the insistence of the first of the houseguests, a young lady of twenty by the name of Sylvia Keane. She in turn was being taken care of by my aunt, her parents having gone to America or some such place.

She was a slight young thing, pretty but prone to that serious, sympathetic disposition that is common in girls her age. You can only hope that they grow out of it. She had been left with Aunt Dahlia, I gathered, so a watchful eye may be kept on her youthful follies, and particularly to avoid the other great affliction of her age, the unfortunate love affair. She was, I was given to understand later, prone to that sort of thing. Also present was a young man of similar age, who was helping Uncle Tom to catalogue his silver collection and went by the name of Stephen Downsell. He seemed a nice enough chap, but was afflicted with the same seriousness of mind as poor Sylvia. It was clear, reading ‘between the lines’ as Jeeves would say, that Stephen and Sylvia were quite inclined to be serious minded together, and Aunt Dahlia was watching them both with hawk like intensity. Fortunately, having sat next to Sylvia throughout dinner, and endured her seven or eight separate attempts to engage me on the subject of the orphans, I concluded that unless Stephen could make himself an object of equal fascination to her she was quite safe. I couldn’t see a way he could manage that unless he shrank three feet and became an orphan himself.

Now, you will recall that Jeeves and I had been summoned before the metaphorical bench to find out just what Aunt Dahlia had in store for us. She looked all in at dinner, but the sight of her loving nephew had clearly rallied her.

“Ah Jeeves, how good you could come.” Aunt Dahlia seemed so sincere in her gratitude at our arrival that I decided to ignore, for the moment, that she had greeted my man before me.  She did turn to me next.

“And Bertie, it’s nice to see you too. Although of course this is where you should be, at Christmas, with your family. I don’t know why you insist on this nonsense of staying up in London for Christmas Bertie, I really don’t.” I had a rather good retort to this harangue, ready to go, but unfortunately Aunt Dahlia ploughed on without waiting for breath. Speaking without stopping to breathe seems to be something of a speciality with my aunts, I can only assume it is a technique that they all learnt together at some special school.

“The most terrible thing has happened.” She said. “And I simply do not know what to do about it. The painting is quite gone and I don’t know who has it, or what they might do.”

“Jeeves said you needed some sleuthing. Not to worry, Bertie Wooster will have your painting back and hanging in the hall by Christmas Eve.” Strangely this did not seem to have soothed my aunt.

“I don’t want it hanging in the hall you imbecile!” She said loudly. “I want it destroyed! I’m not worried about it being gone. I am concerned about it coming back.”

“Sorry old thing, bit lost.”  I admitted. Aunt Dahlia gave one of those sighs that must have been the second thing they leant at aunt school.

“The painting, my dear, dear idiot, is a special portrait of your uncle commissioned from an artist in Fleet Street as his Christmas present.” The sigh again. “Sylvia recommended him, said he was at the cutting edge of the latest style. Which is presumably why your uncle has been rendered as an unfortunately recognisable pot plant.”

“A what?”

“A pot plant. It’s Tom all right, but greener than I can ever recall him being. He’ll be furious if he sees it.”

“And especially furious if he sees the bill I suppose.”

“Precisely.”

“But if the painting is missing, isn’t that a good thing?” I was feeling a trifle bemused, and one doesn’t like to think of their dear old uncles being turned into greenery.

“No.” Aunt Dahlia said forcefully. “Because I do not know where it has gone Bertie dearest, which means I also do not know when it might appear unexpectedly in your uncles eye line. I want it back so I can keep an eye on it.”

“Why didn’t you burn it?”

“I haven’t had a moment to myself. Between you uncle’s digestion and the orphans I’ve been pulled from pillar to post since late November.”

“Uncle Tom is digesting orphans?”

“No, the orphans are having a Christmas party. Or we are organising a party for them and… oh never mind. Will you help me?”

“Of course my dear aunt. Never let is be said that Bertie Wooster would leave a damsel distressed. In fact I am a noted undistresser of every damsel who crosses…”

“Not you idiot.” I suddenly realised that Aunt Dahlia was addressing herself to Jeeves.

“Jeeves, will you help me?”

“Of course madam.”

I tried to interject, “I really don’t think that Jeeves is the best…”

“Bertie, Jeeves is here because his marvellous brain might just save my bacon. You are here because your presence is unfortunately unavoidable. Now, be a dear and shut up.” She addressed herself to Jeeves again.

“Now Jeeves, where should we start?”

“May I suggest questioning the staff madam?"

“You see.” I said. “That is precisely what I mean. Jeeves unfortunately knows nothing of detective matters, whereas I have made an extensive study of the subject. You should always start with the scene of the crime. Where was the painting Aunt Dahlia?”

“In the west wing, in an abandoned bedroom with half a dozen other paintings we don’t want on the walls. And didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

“Yes. But my assistance is needed here. Therefore, whilst Jeeves continues his pointless questioning I shall be in the west wing.”

“I have already spoken to the staff of course.” Said Aunt Dahlia, she was sounding a little doubtful of Jeeves’ plan, which I found gratifying.

“I quite understand that madam.” Said Jeeves. “I however, suspect that they might be a little more open with me than they would be with yourself, madam.”

“Very true.” Aunt Dahlia replied. “Begin in the morning will you Jeeves, no point disturbing them at this time of night.”

‘Very good madam.”

“And I shall examine the scene of the crime.” I said.

“Very well dear.” Said Aunt Dahlia. “Whatever you like.”

*

I awoke in the morning feeling much like the hunter who has sighted a tiger in the jungle. No matter what Aunt Dahlia said this was my moment. After all, had I not read the entire collection of Dick Masters, Detective? In fact I had read them twice, and was therefore doubly prepared. Accordingly, after breakfast I set off towards the west wing with a sense of purpose, only to be waylaid by the unfortunate Stephen. He came running along the west corridor, pursued by the two orphans, who broke off when they saw me and ran away, leaving Stephen to catch his breath and try to get over his obvious terror. When he had calmed down somewhat he grasped my arm, looking more animated than I had ever thought him capable of.

“Bertie, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course old thing. But I’m a bit busy…” It was pointless; he was clearly excited and ploughed on regardless.

“It’s Sylvia. She’s asked me something.”

“What, old bean?” I did not know what to expect. Did serious Sylvia have a hitherto unsuspected passionate side? Was she angling to be eloped with to Gretna Green?

“She’s asked me to play Father Christmas at the orphans’ Christmas party.” Of all the things I might have expected, that was definitely not one of them.

“She’s asked you to what?”

“To play Father Christmas. With the beard and all the usual get up. For the orphans.” I vaguely remembered her making some mention of the orphans’ Christmas party last night at dinner, but most of my attention had been occupied by a spectacular fricassee.

“Whatever for?” I asked.

“She says it will show I am capable of acts of altruism.” Stephen replied. I have always wondered why acts of altruism always seemed precisely designed to make the altruistic one feel miserable. “And she thinks Mrs Travers will like it. She’s very down on me and Sylvia.”

“Aunt Dahlia makes it a rule to be down on most things. But she is interested in the orphans and whatnot, I remember her mentioning it.” I had decided to be encouraging.  Despite the very recent evidence of Stephen’s total lack of a knack with children, there were two arguments strongly in favour of the plan. First, it would perhaps bring happiness to both serious Sylvia and serious Stephen, which would make dinner conversation much easier. Secondly and perhaps most importantly if there was a Father Christmas to be found it was much better for my Aunt’s sharp eye to be fixed on Stephen, lest it should instead turn to me.

“Do you think I should do it then?”

“Oh certainly, certainly old chap. Be good for you, and give you a leg up the old aunt popularity pole.”

“It’s just the children. I find the children a bit... unnerving.”

“Not to worry, they’re just children.” I said comfortingly. “They’re not savages. At least, I assume not.”

“You’re right.” Stephen had the determined look that only comes with love and other forms of madness. “I’ll do it. After all, giving out a few presents to grateful children. How hard can it be?”

“That’s the spirit.”

*

The west wing was disappointingly lacking in clues I thought, the housemaid was far too efficient with a duster for my liking and nearly all the really good clues, fingerprints, footprints et cetera, had been cleaned away. However, I had found a bit of twig embedded in the carpet that I was certain had promise. Accordingly I pulled on my smart new hat and ventured out into the shrubbery to match the little tell tale to her parent plant. I was just examining some footprints around a suspicious larch when I spied Jeeves in the distance, heading towards me with a purposeful air. I’ve learnt to be wary of Jeeves’ purposeful airs whenever they are wafting in my direction and whipped my hat off quickly before he could see it.

“What ho Jeeves.”

“Good morning sir.”

“And how was your interrogation of the staff? Nothing new to report I trust?”

“The housemaid had a very interesting story to tell sir.”

“Did she now. Well I’ll be the judge of that. What did she say Jeeves?”

“I thought you might wish to hear her for yourself sir. She’s waiting for us in the kitchen.” This dratted housemaid was clearly determined to ruin my morning.

“Very well, lead on Jeeves.”

I will be honest, I didn’t hold out much hope for the housemaid, a girl by the name of Elsie Collins, and her story, but when I saw her in the kitchen the proverbial lightening bolt of inspiration bally well struck its target.

“You are Elsie Collins, the housemaid?” I asked her sternly. She nodded.

“The housemaid of Brinkley Court? Residence of Mr and Mrs Travers?”

“Yes sir.” She said quietly.

“Yes sir.” I repeated. “But you are not in fact what you claim to be, are you madam. For a quick perusal of your person tells me you are no such person, and indeed have never done a day’s housework in your life!” I waited for my announcement to have the required effect. Elsie Collins, or whatever her real name was, certainly looked thunderstruck. Jeeves, I felt, could have looked a little more thunderstruck if he had been willing to put in the effort. Nevertheless I ploughed on, wishing slightly that I were still wearing my hat just for the look of the thing.

“Your hands, to begin with, are far too soft for any sort of manual work, and your dress is far too clean.” I was warming to my theme “but you have patches of earth on your boots and the hem of your dress, and there is a small twig caught in your hair. I found a very similar twig at the scene of the crime. Therefore, I deduce that you are not in fact a housemaid, but a famous art thief, who has come to this house specifically to steal a painting. You stole in using the larch in the garden, wearing your housemaid costume, and took the painting, removing it the same way. That explains the twigs in your hair and the mud on your dress. When Jeeves came looking for the servants you were unable to escape, so you decided to pretend to be the housemaid in the hope that Jeeves, as a stranger to the house, would not recognise you.” I paused for dramatic effect, and to take a much needed breath. Elsie Collins looked stunned, but Jeeves was almost mutinously unimpressed.

“I fear the unblemished state of Miss Collins’ hands may be attributed to her beginning her post a week ago sir, and the cleanliness of her dress is due to her admirable attention to her laundry.” Jeeves said. “The mud and twigs you mentioned are most likely due to her holding the door for the gardener when he brought in the Christmas tree.”

“Are you sure Jeeves?”

“Quite sure sir. However, Miss Collins does know who removed the painting.”

“Does she?” The girl brightened and nodded eagerly.

“It was Miss Sylvia sir.”

“Miss Sylvia?” I said, taking my turn to be thunderstruck. “An art thief?”

“Oh no sir. She took it for the raffle sir, at the orphans’ Christmas party.”

“Raffle?”

“Yes sir. Mr Travers told her to take the picture of a pot plant from the west wing for the raffle sir. She came and asked me where it was and I showed her the room where the paintings are kept. Only Mr Jeeves says she must have taken the wrong one.”

“Didn’t you tell Mrs Travers about this?”

“She was very angry sir. And I didn’t want to get in trouble for showing her the room sir. I’ve only been here a few days, and if I lost a post that quick I’d never get another sir.” I had the feeling the girl was expecting a jolly good ticking off from me for not telling me aunt. No doubt she had already had one from Jeeves, who can be frighteningly severe. But I had been on the wrong side of my aunt’s temper often enough to sympathise with anyone who wanted to avoid it.

“Thank you Miss Collins, that will do.” She looked from me to Jeeves, and obviously considering herself sufficiently dismissed, curtsied and left the room.   

“Well Jeeves, I suppose we better go and face the wrath of the aunt ourselves.”

*

Interestingly, my aunt’s wrath is no less terrifying when it is directed at someone else. It is more in the manner of a general conflagration destroying everything in sight.

“Well Jeeves” she said when the metaphorical city had been reduced to ashes and she had calmed somewhat. “What to do? The raffle prizes are locked in the parish hall. They won’t open it before the party now.”

“I understand madam, that you are on the committee for the Christmas party. Perhaps you could affect a removal during the party itself?”

“Oh no Jeeves, I’ll be far too busy, and far too visible. I can’t just walk out with the painting tucked under my arm, I’d be noticed.” She sighed deeply. “It’s hopeless, the picture will be revealed at the raffle, Tom will see it, and he will be a laughing stock in the village.”

“Perhaps madam, if someone were suitably disguised they might be able to leave with the painting unnoticed.” A cold shiver of apprehension passed down my spine. If anyone had to be suitably disguised, it somehow always seemed to be me.

“Disguised how?” Aunt Dahlia asked.

“I understand that Father Christmas is to visit the party, to distribute gifts to the children.”

“Yes, Stephen has agreed to do it, more fool him.”

“Well madam, if Father Christmas were to be seen with a present, say a painting wrapped in a piece of wrapping paper, no one would think it amiss if he carried it away.”

“But Jeeves, we couldn’t ask Stephen to do it, he’d want to know why.”

“I was thinking more of a second Father Christmas. If the costumes were sufficiently similar it would be difficult to tell them apart, and if the removal was affected whilst the other Father Christmas was dispensing presents to the children, it may cause sufficient confusion when the loss is discovered to prevent anyone establishing the facts of the case.”

“Oh Jeeves, that is brilliant.” Aunt Dahlia sounded impressed, and my shiver turned into a definite quake.

“But Jeeves,” I interjected hurriedly before this could go any further. “Where would we get a second Father Christmas costume?”

“Oh that’s no bother.” Aunt Dahlia said dismissively. “There are two in the amateur dramatics costume box. We had to have a second one for Earnest Wilson last year, because that great scabrous cat of his kept leaving fur on it and we couldn’t get it off in time for the performances. He was about your size.”

“The cat?”

“No, Earnest. Come along Bertie, we can try it on you now. It should be a perfect fit.”

*

And that, dear readers, is how I found myself crawling through a small window at the back of the parish hall, dressed as a cat-hair festooned Father Christmas. Jeeves had promised to meet me outside in ten minutes to relieve me of the painting, so I could whip off my Father Christmas kit and join the party as if I had not been committing nefarious acts bare moments before. Then, my innocence ensured by having been spotted hob-nobbing near the sherry with the strident Valkyries of the orphans committee, I would be free to be as shocked as everyone else when the raffle prize was found to be missing.

It was all going swimmingly, and I had just reached the room where the raffle prizes were supposed to be kept when one of the Valkyries emerged from the door to my left.

“There you are!” She bellowed, grabbing my arm in a vice-like grip.

“Yes, here I am.” I replied, suspecting strongly that wherever I was, it was where I most certainly did not want to be.

“We’re all waiting for you.” She began to tug me along the corridor with an irresistible force, shoving a sack into my hands as we went. I was bundled through a door and blinking into sudden light. As my vision cleared I realised I was being confronted by a miniaturised horde, painted with the remnants of party food, and heading straight towards me.

“Father Christmas!” Was their battle cry, and I had no defence. They quickly overran me, and whilst one particularly determined little girl was shinning up my leg to reach the sack, I was assaulted from behind by two of the little blighters who had leapt from a pillar to land on my back. Blindly I began to throw presents from the sack into the crowd, which seemed to pacify them as they dropped back to examine their loot. I had fortunately retained my beard, and therefore my anonymity, throughout the encounter, but my robe was torn and I strongly suspected my shirt was not in much better condition. From the one eye that was not covered by my pulled down hat I saw Sylvia approaching.

“Oh, you were wonderful!” She said, embracing me and planting a solid and unexpectedly enthusiastic kiss on my cheek. It was at that moment I also caught a glimpse of a second Father Christmas, glowering at me from the corner of the room. I did not have a chance to correct the obvious error however, for I also saw my Aunt Dahlia advance on the second Santa, say seven extremely angry words to him, and push him firmly through a door. I sat down heavily on my makeshift sleigh, watching two members of the now relatively placid horde playfully beating each other about the head with wooden boats. It was then that I noticed that the little girl who had been shinning up my leg had obviously stopped at my pocket, for now she was running around the hall wearing my earflapped hat at a rakish angle. To cap it all, she had already adorned it with a large dollop of jelly on the brim.

*

Later, I had soothed my bruised body with a well-deserved bath and changed into an excellent pair of silk pyjamas I had brought home from New York. Despite all this I was still not in a sanguine frame of mind, for Jeeves had yet to return after the party, having seen fit to apparently desert his post at the vital moment. I was already in bed when he finally sauntered in, looking far less contrite than I felt the circumstances warranted.

“Well Jeeves that was, if I may say so, one of the worst failures of a plan that I have ever been unfortunate enough to witness.”

“Indeed sir?”

“Yes indeed Jeeves. Not only did I not retrieve the painting, but I was attacked by a marauding group of children.” I rubbed my shoulder meaningfully.  “I doubt my shoving arm will ever recover.”

“However, the painting was recovered sir. I have just completed disposal of it in a suitably distant establishment.”

“Disposal Jeeves?”

The painting has been burnt sir, in the fire of a public house some miles away.”

“So you mean to say that whilst I was here, soothing my injuries in a bath run for me by a footman, you were warming your feet at a fire of my Uncle Tom’s image in some bucolic country inn?”

“I thought it best to dispose of it immediately sir, before any more mishaps could occur.”

“Quite enough mishaps have already occurred tonight Jeeves.” I rubbed my shoulder again. “And how, may I ask, was the painting retrieved while I was being molested?”

“Mr Downsell affected the removal of the item sir.”

“Why ever did he do that? He knew nothing about it.”

“Because Mrs Travers told him to sir, in quite strident terms, while she believed him to be you. Fortunately, I was present in the corridor to provide him with some more precise directions.”

“Very fortunate indeed Jeeves. But why would he do it? Steal from the parish hall just on Aunt Dahlia’s say so?”

“I believe the young man had just become even more keen to please Mrs Travers sir, in the hopes of securing the affections of Miss Keane.”

“Oh serious Sylvia, of course. Who, incidentally Jeeves, threw herself at me during the fracas this evening in full view of Stephen. I’d wager he’s not too happy with her right now.”

“Fortunately Miss Sylvia does not know it was you in that costume sir, and I managed to convince Mr Downsell that perhaps the blame for the incident lay more with you than with Miss Sylvia. I have found in the past sir that men who are in a similar frame of mind to Mr Downsell are not hard to persuade of the innocence of their object of affection.”

“So you passed the blame onto me Jeeves?”

“Unfortunately, yes sir.”

“Unfortunately! Look here Jeeves, I’m very glad that all has been remedied with the painting and whatnot, but you must still face the fact that your plan went very far awry, and your master was physically harmed because of it.”

“I regret, sir, that I calculated that your encounter with the more boisterous members of the orphans home was an unfortunate necessity if all were to be resolved satisfactorily.”

“Boisterous Jeeves? They were murderous! A crazed horde of tiny barbarians barrelling towards me. I nearly lost my life! And I did lose my ha…” I paused suddenly. I suppose it didn’t matter now if Jeeves knew about my hat and yet, it was the first secret I had ever kept from him and I was loath to give it up.

“You lost something sir?”

“Nothing Jeeves.” The import of his words had just reached my bruised and battered brain. “Hang on a moment, do you mean you meant for me to be brutalised by those demons?”

“I regret it was me who sent Miss Lydgate to find you sir.”

“Why Jeeves? Have I done you some grievous wrong for which you felt the need to exact revenge?”

“Not at all sir. It seemed to me however, that in order for Miss Sylvia to be fully enamoured of Mr Downsell he would be required to perform in the role of Father Christmas. Considering his reactions to the two young persons already present in the house, I thought that exposure to even more boisterous members of the species may produce an undesired effect in him.”

“You thought he’d turn and run?”

“Precisely sir.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t?”

“I calculated sir, that the shock of being thrust into such a situation unexpectedly might produce a more favourable result.”

“But why do we want Sylvia enamoured of Stephen Jeeves? Isn’t Aunt Dahlia supposed to be preventing precisely that sort of thing happening? Sudden elopements and all that?”

“Indeed sir. And with her attention now so firmly turned on the young people, I would imagine you will able to leave the house tomorrow without causing any distress.”

“So you mean…” I was beginning to feel confused, I wasn’t entirely sure if it was Jeeves’ explanation or the repeated blows to the head I had suffered during the evening.   

“I predict sir, that we will easily return to London in time for Christmas Eve.”

“Oh.” I thought I was pleased, but it was rather hard to tell. This was always the problem with one of Jeeves’ schemes; I always ended up unsure how I should feel about it. I decided, as usual, to soldier on.

“In that case Jeeves, pack our cases and prepare to leave in the morning.”

“Very good sir.”

*

On Christmas morning I awoke in my own bed, the recently crowned champion of the Drones Club annual Shove up St Peter tournament and generally in a pretty tip-top temper with the world. Jeeves brought in my breakfast tray and enquired if I would like a bath drawn. I replied in the enthusiastic affirmative and he withdrew.

I was left to contemplate my boiled egg in peace. I was just about to decapitate the little blighter when I suddenly noticed an unusual item on the otherwise highly usual tray. Lying next to the plate was an extremely neatly wrapped package, tied with a perfect silver bow. It was the sort of perfection that only a fellow like Jeeves can achieve. Intrigued, I pulled off the ribbon and paper, and then stared in amazement at what was inside. For there, folded neatly and as good as new, was my earflapped hat.


End file.
